


Those Small Hours In The Dark Of Night

by tj_teejay



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, h/c, mentions of male rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-27
Updated: 2015-07-27
Packaged: 2018-04-11 14:52:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4440098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tj_teejay/pseuds/tj_teejay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The bottom of humanity keeps haunting Matt, to the point where it brings a rebar and a gun to the fight. It’s Claire who picks up the pieces of the aftermath, and there’s much that Matt needs to be grateful for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Those Small Hours In The Dark Of Night

**Author's Note:**

> **Timeframe:** This is set shortly after the season 1 finale.  
>  **Author's Note:** Just some good old Matt whump. And a little bit of Matt/Claire UST. Or a lot. On both accounts. I did slap on a warning for non-con, but it's not Matt or Claire getting raped, in case that's a concern.  
>  **Disclaimer:** None of this is mine except for my vivid imagination. Copyright to characters and situations belongs to Drew Goddard, Steven S. DeKnight, Marvel Entertainment, Netflix, and whoever else might wish to claim ownership. I'm just borrowing for a little escapism and a whole lot of fun.
> 
> +-+-+-+-+

It doesn’t get much darker than this. That deep pit that houses the bottom of humanity—Matt has seen it tonight. In its most vile and base form.

It doesn’t matter that he can’t see, not in the literal sense of the word, but he saw enough to still feel the acerbic aftertaste of repulsion on his tongue.

This time, his nightly activities had taken him to the outskirts of Hell’s Kitchen, following a faint distress signal he just… felt. He can’t describe it, it’s hard to put into words, and he can’t remember what the world was like when his senses worked like everyone else’s. Most days, his abilities are both a blessing and a curse. Today it’s more of the latter.

More on instinct than actual intent, he finds his way back to the roof access of his apartment. The rooftops of Manhattan seem to dither beneath his feet; his footing is unsure. There’s a hazy mist entrapping his perception, and pain rakes sharp lines into the fiery red flames that dance before his eyes.

He thinks he might have a concussion, and he isn’t sure if the bullet only just nicked his calf or went straight through. It’s slightly disconcerting in itself that he can’t tell the difference, but there’s blood. Quite a substantial amount of it.

Inside, he collapses on the couch with a moan, bending over to retch up the scarce remains of dinner. He spends his last energy on making that call he both craves and dreads.

“Claire? I think I… need your help.” His voice is strained.

She must have picked up on the gravity of the situation, because she doesn’t bother with their usual banter. “Matt? Where are you? Are you at your place?”

“Yes,” he says between clenched teeth.

“I’m coming.”

He lets his hand sink down. By the time the phone clatters to the floor, he’s already lost consciousness.

+-+-+-+-+

“Matt?”

The voice is faint, but familiar. “Come on, Matt, stay with me.”

He wants to say something, but his voice won’t cooperate. A groan forms in the back of his throat before he can force out her name. “Claire?”

“Yeah. Glad you’re with us.”

“Us?”

Her hand ever so lightly brushes his forehead. “Figure of speech. It’s just me.”

He tries to get his bearings, but the spaces just won’t align. He seems to be lying on the couch, and everything starts spinning as he lifts his head. Pain is a sharp reminder of how cruel the real world can be, one that he’d much rather do without. And how did she get inside his apartment, anyway?

“Hey, hey, hey,” she shushes him, pushing him back gently. “Moving around isn’t such a great idea. You’re concussed, by the looks of it. Bullet tore right through your calf, too. You really know how to give me a run for my money, Murdock.”

His brain is too sluggish for verbal sparring, so he lets his head sink back against the armrest. Concentrating on how to breathe is hard enough.

Something warm touches his hand, focuses his attention. She asks, “Any other injuries I should know about?”

He tries to take inventory. And fails. This is not good. He closes his eyes and tries again. Moving past the sharp pain in his leg is difficult. A dull lower harmonic in his head provides a constant hum—a distraction that is difficult to navigate around. It takes all his effort to come to the conclusion that the pain in his right shoulder is just a contusion.

“No,” he finally forces out. “But this is quite enough.”

“Yeah, I’d say. How’s your head?”

It’s failing him. It’s messing with his ability to function. It also fucking hurts. “Not great.”

Her fingertips probe his skull, and he winces as she masterfully finds the spot where a sizeable lump has already formed. Proof that, as sturdy as it may be, the new mask doesn’t deflect a full-force rebar blow.

“Sorry,” she mutters.

His stomach lurches, and he mutters, “Nauseous.”

“Hold on,” she says, hurrying to the kitchen and back to push a cereal bowl into his hand. “Best I could find.”

The movement to sit up is as much involuntary as it is necessary, and her steady hands support his back as he retches a lot of nothingness into the ceramic bowl. He thinks he can hear her murmur, “Jesus, Matt.”

He pants by the time he’s done, completely spent. He lets her lower him back down with a gentle ease to her touch. She’s done this before, probably a hundred times. She must be really good at her job.

Her voice is concerned when she says, “I know you don’t want to go to the hospital, but this could be serious. You should have a scan to rule out brain damage.”

“No hospital,” he croaks.

“Yeah, okay, we’ll go with that for now, but if you throw up again, I _will_ reconsider. And that’s not open for negotiation.”

He swallows down the feeble protest he had at the tip of his tongue. Maybe she’s right. Maybe not. He has a hard time keeping the two options apart.

She gets up and into the bathroom. He isn’t sure what she’s doing there, but he thinks he can hear the tap running. Her voice is low when she crouches down next to him. The cool, wet cloth she places on his forehead is a balm to his battered senses. A small sound of subdued relief forms in the back of his throat.

“I’ll let you rest,” she tells him. “Okay?”

He wants to say, “Don’t leave,” but it won’t come out. He closes his eyes and lets semi-consciousness mingled with bone-deep exhaustion claim his body.

+-+-+-+-+

Something shakes him awake. Literally but gently shakes him awake.

Claire’s hand is warm on his arm, his name floating through a mist of sound waves to his inner ear. “Matt, wake up.”

The first thing he utters is a groan, because, shit, every part of his body hurts. First and foremost his head, which he clumsily gropes with the palm of his hand.

“Easy,” she hushes.

He vaguely remembers. “You’re still here.”

“Of course I’m still here. And I will be, for the rest of the night. Waking you every couple of hours.”

This puzzles him, and it must have shown because she adds, “To make sure you don’t have any intracranial bleeding. Tell me your name.”

“You know my name.”

“Yes, but I want you to say it.”

“Matt. Murdock.”

“Okay, good. What day is it?”

“Watermelon.”

“Come again?”

He tries a small smile. “I’m kidding. Thursday.”

“Very funny. Stop messing with me. This is pretty serious.”

“Try being the one on the receiving end of the rebar.”

“And the small caliber bullet.”

Yeah. He had almost forgotten about that.

“Are you still nauseous?” she asks.

“No.” It’s just the killer headache and the throbbing pain in his leg now. He wishes she hadn’t reminded him.

“And you’re being honest with me?”

“Yes.”

Her heartbeat tells him she believes him. Barely.

It’s now that he realizes he isn’t wearing his suit anymore. He’s in a pair of sweatpants and a t‑shirt. There’s a blanket draped over him. Embarrassment should be the least of his worries, but it’s there nevertheless. He’ll have to thank her for all of this. Properly. Maybe with a dinner in a fancy restaurant, but he has a feeling she’s probably more the pastrami on rye kinda gal.

She fumbles with something in her medical bag, and she hands something small to him. “Here. Painkillers. You should take something for the pain.”

“No,” he says. “They—“

“Mess with your senses. I know. But, Matt, your senses aren’t going to be of any use for the next 12 hours anyway. At the very least. You can be a hero next time you run around out there, jumping from roof to roof. Right now, I just need you to be a normal, concussed patient, okay?”

Not okay, he thinks, but he’s too drained to argue. He swallows the pill with a sip of water from a glass she holds out to him.

“You would be a lot more comfortable on the bed. Think you can move?”

He’s not sure. Maybe. If he sets his mind to it. “Come on,” she urges him, her hand finding the back of his neck to help him up.

He has to clench his teeth not to groan again. _Man up,_ he tells himself. He’s usually better at this, and attributes his momentary weakness to his debilitated brain.

The few yards to the bedroom are more laborious than they should be, and he’s not so sure it was a good idea to attempt an upright position. The nausea is back, and the struggle to keep it at bay takes too much effort to be able to focus on anything else.

She helps him get comfortable, tucks him in. He’s eternally grateful and more than ever longs for her soft touch. “Hey,” he says, “You don’t need to take the couch.”

She looks at him for a long moment, then, “I, uh... I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Claire. I’m not... I’m not suggesting...”

“Yeah, I get that.”

“Please,” he says. “It’ll be a lot more comfortable, and you’ve already lost enough sleep.”

The sarcastic huff of breath she lets out is a telltale sign of unspoken acknowledgement. Of course she has, and they’re not just talking about these wee hours tonight.

Despite the humongous elephant in the room, she smiles a small smile. “Hell of a way to get a woman into bed with you.”

“Yeah, not the way I had in mind, though.”

“Oh, shut up.”

The bedsheets rustle as she makes herself comfortable next to him. She fumbles with her smartphone before she puts it on the floor next to the bed. “Talk to you in two hours.”

He keeps listening to her quiet breathing for a long time, trying to forget the aches and pains of his body. The pain medication kicks in eventually, and his surroundings fade into a blur of much welcomed darkness.

+-+-+-+-+

_“Help! No, get off of me! Help!!”_

_The cry pierces Matt’s hearing, and he’s getting closer. Not close enough. The man’s feeble voice keeps calling for help, keeps yelling at his attackers. More frantic, scared, panicked every time. Until it stops._

_And that’s the worst moment. Matt runs, pants with the exertion, runs faster._

_The alley is dark, and there’s derisive laughter. “You’re such a jerk-off. Let’s go again, the little son of bitch ain’t done yet,” one of the men says in a heavy New York accent._

_Matt operates purely on irate determination and muscle memory. He jumps them, pulling one of the two attackers off the young man. They don’t even put up that much of a fight and go down quickly. He focuses his attention on the victim who is lying motionless on the cold ground. His heartbeat is strong, which tells him it’s not too late. Not too late to save his life, anyway._

_The man is unconscious, and there’s blood. He can smell it, acrid and metallic. There isn’t much he can do himself, so he dials 911 on the burner phone. He knows he should get out of here before the ambulance arrives, but there’s no way he’s just going to leave now._

_The young man’s hair is short and curly, matted with blood from a laceration across his brow. There’s more blood on the insides of his thighs. From the amount of sweat and adrenaline, Matt can only guess the extent of the assault, and it makes him sick to his stomach. No human being should ever deserve to be treated like this._

_He takes off his glove and lightly touches the man’s face. He stirs at the touch, his muscles taut._

_“Shh,” he whispers. “It’s okay, you’re safe now. Help is coming.”_

_The man whimpers and Matt wishes there was more he could do. A cold rage starts burning through him, momentarily blinding him. And then there’s a loud pop and a sharp pain in his leg._

_He yelps, letting a rare cussword slip from his lips. One of the bastards had a gun. Why did he not notice that before? He berates himself for not paying enough attention, for letting his emotions get the better of him. Maybe Stick was right after all, emotions are a distraction._

_The bullet wound in his calf has him pay the price. The other attacker, now also conscious again, comes at him with a rebar, swinging it madly. Matt gives his best to get out of the way, but his leg just won’t cooperate. He ducks, but not quickly enough. The collision of metal against mask whacks his head sideways, knocking him clean off his good leg._

_The guy tacks on another blow to the head for good measure and Matt is damn near losing consciousness himself. His only salvation are the sirens of the approaching ambulance that has the assailants scamper away._

_He lets his head sink back against the asphalt for a brief moment, panting heavily against the ringing in his head. And then the scene shifts. Bizarrely, inexplicably._

_The alley looks the same, but there’s a man running from something. He’s wearing a shining red cape with the yellow letters ‘Battlin’ Jack Murdock’ emblazoned on the back. Two bulky men approach, gun cocked. A shot goes off, and Jack Murdock goes down. Blood seeps crimson onto the ground._

_Matt wants to run and save his father, but his legs won’t move, are rooted to the ground. “Dad!” he shouts, and his voice sounds like he’s ten years old again. “No! Dad!!”_

“Matt! Matt, wake up!”

This voice is different. Insistent. Female. Clamoring for a different kind of attention.

He snaps back to the real world with a start, but it takes him a few seconds to realize he’s just woken from a dream. “Claire?”

“Yeah. You were having a nightmare.”

No shit. He lets his head sink back against the pillows and swallows heavily against the dryness in his throat where the scream had just caught. The dream world lingers, too vivid, not yet washed away. A twisted, small part of him wants it to remain, because it’s the only way he still sees things the way he did before the accident.

His father’s shooting repeats like a time travel loop because he lets it, clinging to the red of the blood that stains the concrete.

“Matt.”

Claire’s voice is gentle, worried, sad. He separates himself from the dream, scaling the simmering rage inside him down a notch.

“Wanna talk about it?” she probes.

He wordlessly shakes his head, hoping she can see it in the darkness.

“Okay.” She’s not mad or upset, he can tell. She understands. Probably has her own demons.

They lie in silence, the sounds of the slowly awakening city filtering in through the tinted windows. He can sense her turning to face him and he closes his eyes.

Her fingers brush his temple ever so slightly, her palm coming to rest on his cheek. Her thumb makes the tiniest movement on his skin. This isn’t really him, but his self-restraint is too exposed in the small hours of the morning. Tears threaten to fall. And then they do.

She doesn’t say anything, and somehow that’s okay. She scoots closer until her knee touches his hip. He has to suppress a sob that works its way up his throat. Her thumb silently wipes the tears away across his scraggly stubble until he gets a hold of himself.

“You dreamed about your dad, didn’t you?” she asks quietly.

There’s no point in lying. “Yeah. Did I…”

“You said his name.”

“I saw him die.”

“In your dream?”

“Yes.”

“You said he was a boxer. Is that how it happened?”

He isn’t sure he wants to dredge up the whole story. He has never really told anyone. Foggy knows the rough outline he was willing to share in during a sentimental moment tainted by high proof liquor. Foggy had listened, said a few sympathetic words, and they’d closed that chapter.

“He was shot when I was ten. I didn’t fully understand it back then, but he… he was getting in too deep. Accepted bribes to throw fights. He was trying so hard to get by, we never had much money. And that last fight against Creel, I think he was supposed to lose. But he didn’t. I listened to the match on TV, and I cheered him on. I was so happy.

“I waited for him, I always did. Guess I fell asleep. It was the gunshot that woke me. They found him in an alley near our house, a bullet in his forehead. He was already dead when I got there.”

“They let you see him?”

He nods. “Worst day of my life.”

Her voice is soft and compassionate. “That must have been tough. What about your mother?”

“She was never around. It was always just me and my dad. And the orphanage after that.”

“Sounds like a rough childhood.”

He shrugs. “Maybe it was, but it could have been a lot worse. For a while, I had Stick.”

“Stick?”

“An old, blind man who started training me. Taught me all I know.”

“How to use your senses?”

“That, and how to fight.”

“Is he still alive?”

He lets out a breath through his nose. Claire doesn’t know the half of it. “Yeah, he’s still alive.”

“You say that as if it’s a bad thing.”

He stays quiet for a moment, and there’s that brick wall he’s built around all of it that he isn’t ready to tear down. “Turns out he’s not a good man.”

He leaves it at that, and maybe she was hoping for him to elaborate because the silence stretches on. He isn’t ready to go there, so he counteracts with a question of his own.

“Your parents, are they still around?”

“Mom lives out in Morristown. I see her every couple of months. My dad passed away two years ago. It pretty much happened overnight, he was only 62, no one saw it coming. So I get that call at 2 in the morning that no one ever wants to get. ‘Your father is dead. Can you come?’ Worst day of _my_ life.”

He isn’t sure what to say because all he can think of are those cliché answers that he’s grown to hate, but maybe he doesn’t need to say anything.

She continues, “But, you know, the one good thing about it is, he went the way he always wanted to go. He always said he didn’t want to end up having someone to take care of him. That would have broken him. And once we were all over the shock, we’ve been taking consolation in that.

“Mom’s actually doing really well now. She’s always out with one friend or another. Even took a few vacation trips she’s been holding off.”

“Did you grow up in Morristown?”

“Yeah, pretty much. Stereotype small town gal—high school cheerleading squad and everything.”

He laughs a soft laugh. “I’d love to have seen that.”

She laughs with him. “I should dig out some old phot— Shit. Sorry, I, uh…”

“Momentarily forgot that I’m blind?”

She seems to blush, he can feel the change in temperature in her cheeks.

“It’s okay. The way you see me do things, that’s probably not such a huge stretch.”

“It’s still a shitty thing to have to admit.”

He shakes his head, because… “Actually, it’s not. There aren’t many people who can look beyond the glasses and the white cane.”

He only knows three. Or two and a half, because there’s the odd moment where Karen says something unintentionally imprudent or stops mid-sentence to correct herself because she’s trying to be politically correct. But that’s okay too, Foggy had needed time until he was able to effortlessly navigate his way into their mutual comfort zones.

“Doesn’t it feel wrong to constantly pretend you’re someone you’re not?”

“You mean pretend that I’m a lot more helpless than I actually am?”

He thinks about it. It’s been this way for almost twenty years, it has become second nature. Animal instinct. He doesn’t even think about it anymore. Except sometimes when Foggy is around. He doesn’t always remember that he doesn’t have to pretend with Foggy anymore.

“You know, somehow that’s just the way it is.”

“No, that’s the way you need it to be in order to function in this world,” she adds. “And there’s something about it that doesn’t feel right.”

“But it’s not me you need to fix, it’s the preconceived expectations of our society.”

She sighs. “Okay, I’m not ready to discuss profound questions of philosophy at 4:30 in the morning. And I guess that also means that whatever blow to the head you sustained, it doesn’t seem to have caused any brain bleeds.”

“Small favors, right?”

She smiles. “Yeah.”

He shifts his head to face her. “You know, you should try to get some sleep.”

“Says the guy who narrowly escaped serious brain damage not five hours ago.”

“Now you’re just being dramatic.”

“No, I’m being realistic. An area where you are seriously lacking.”

He lets out a soft chuckle that ebbs away into silence. “Let’s sleep,” he whispers.

Claire hums almost inaudibly, turning on her side with her back to him. He has to suppress the urge to touch her back, but he settles for listening to her long and steady breaths, trying to ignore the lingering dull pain in his head.

+-+-+-+-+

The first thing he notices when he wakes up again is the smell. It’s pungent to his nose, but not unpleasant. Something is sizzling in a frying pan, and there’s melted butter and spices and eggs and... white bread being toasted. He thinks he can detect a spicy tea of some sort, which he didn’t even know he had.

Pushing the button of his talking alarm clock, he hears the female voice impassively announcing that it’s 8:24 am. He can’t suppress the moan that escapes his lips as he rolls out of bed. The tentative attempt of putting weight on his injured leg earns him an involuntary hiss, but he pushes through it. He’s had worse than this.

He shuffles, or, well, limps into the living room to be greeted by a cheerful, “Morning, sunshine.”

His mouth twists into a half-smile of sorts. Or at least that’s what he aims for. The post fight-hangover mornings are always the worst, and the fact that his circulation is now getting into gear brings out the dull rubber mallet that seems to want to hammer permanent dents into his brain.

All he can muster is a barely coherent, “Morning,” in response.

The shower does what it can, even though he probably shouldn’t be doing it with a freshly sewn up bullet wound in his calf. But he figures it can’t matter all that much, since he has the person he trusts most for medical attention right here in the next room.

He almost feels like a human being by the time he’s dressed. No sooner has he sat down at the kitchen table, that Claire puts a plate in front of him that smells like cheese omelet and toast. She must have gone down to the little corner store to get the ingredients; fresh food and Matt Murdock’s refrigerator don’t usually mix.

“I couldn’t find any coffee. Or a coffee maker, for that matter.”

He gives her a smile—a genuine one this time. “Yeah, I usually grab one on the way to work.”

“Work, as in your day job, I assume.”

“A little hard not to spill your double-shot chocolate mocha when you’re beating up people.”

“So you’re a double-shot chocolate mocha kind of person,” she teases.

“Occasionally.”

“You know, just for the record, I’m more of a plain latte kinda gal.”

“All right, I’ll keep that in mind. Just in case my commute to my day job ever coincides with yours.”

She ignores the jab and goes back to the kitchen. “Okay, so I’ve got some kind of tea aptly named ‘Morning Thunder’,” she picks up the cardboard box and reads, “ _A charging brew of black tea and South American maté, this blend is both energizing and exotic._ Or—not quite so exotic but possibly just as energizing—orange juice.”

He chuckles softly. “I’ll take the juice.”

She sits down across from him with her steaming mug of tea and a plate, and bites into a buttered piece of toast. “How are you feeling?”

“Sometimes I wish you weren’t so... nursey all the time.”

“What? It’s what I’m here for, isn’t it?”

He wishes it weren’t so, but knows that the chances of that changing any time soon are tied to his secret nightly activities. He’s got his principles, and she’s got hers. The intersecting set of both is leveling towards zero, which complicates matters substantially. And they’re both acutely aware of it.

But that matters less today, because there’s something he needs to know. “Hey, uh, can I ask you something?”

She looks at him before she answers. He hates that she hesitates, but he’s already asked so much of her. “That depends on whether it involves anything other than medical assistance.”

“When you get on shift today, can you check if a rape victim came in and how he’s doing?”

Her voice is low and quiet when she asks, “Is that what you were doing last night?”

His nod is barely perceptible because he doesn’t want to relive any of it. “He was in pretty bad shape, and I… I was too late. There wasn’t enough time.”

“Jesus, Matt. That’s terrible.”

“Yeah.” Doesn’t he know it?

“Yes, I’ll check. Do you have a name?”

“No. He was maybe 5’8, short, curly hair, skinny, not much older than 19 or 20. He’d have a cut above his eye and…” Other, more extensive damage. He doesn’t want to say it out loud.

“Did you at least get the guys that did it?”

“Not the way they deserved. They managed to get away, and they’ll probably be out there again in a couple of days, doing the same thing to their next victim.” He’s curling his fist around his fork so hard now that his knuckles whiten. And that’s exactly the reason why he needs to keep doing what he does.

“If he came in last night, they would have tried to get consent for a rape kit. I could try to see if he pressed charges. If he did, there’s a set of very loyal, kickass Hell’s Kitchen lawyers I will recommend to him.”

Matt’s mouth curves into the briefest of smiles. “Thank you, Claire.”

“Yeah,” she waves it off. “Don’t mention it.”

But he wants to. None of this is something he ever wants to start taking for granted.

“So,” she says, her voice upbeat and curious. “Talking about your day job, I think you owe me a bit of a backstory there. Cause your lawyer friend... that night he called me when you had your little run-in with the Japanese guy, he seemed pretty upset.”

His thoughts of that night are more rueful than anything, and a nervous tremor tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Can we not talk about that?”

She seems taken aback. She probably didn’t pick up on all the baggage the repercussions of that night brought. And maybe that came out a lot harsher than he intended.

He tries to make up for it with a bit of a compromise. “But there’s other things about Foggy I can tell you. Like how he’s watched all seasons of _Buffy_ and _Angel_ at least three times over, or how he likes to use Gypsy Bergamot aftershave because he thinks it’s hip.”

“How did you two meet?”

And just like that, she saves the day. Because there’s nothing Matt enjoys more right now than to talk about the people he cares about, the people that ground him, and the people who have a heart big enough to move past the rough patches, only to come back stronger than before.

He’s unbelievably lucky to have a few of them in his life, and he can’t say often enough just how grateful he is for that.

+-+-+-+-+

THE END.


End file.
